It was a beautiful sweet summer night, the moon was high in the sky and so bright that you could think she polished herself for some special occasion.
That very night I was being cradled by the music of my friend the nightingale when something started to tickle me. I thought I was alone; everything seemed quiet but this something that was tickling me.
The nightingale interrupted his song and, in the suddenly silent air, the only thing I could hear were sights of pain. The tickling was not ceased but it slowly became less acute and when it stopped also the sights were gone.
When the nightingale started a new sad song I looked down at my limbs and, in the moonlight, I saw the shape of a hanged man.
(The Olive Tree Tales)
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